


Unspoken

by IndridGrey



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-typical language, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Movie Reference, One Shot, Season 11 Spoilers, Soulmates, big brother assholery, mostly canon compliant, plus swearing, up to hell's angel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-13
Updated: 2016-04-13
Packaged: 2018-06-02 00:55:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6543901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndridGrey/pseuds/IndridGrey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the first kiss is a joke.  Then others less so.  Then very much not so.</p><p>Brothers being brothers starting to figure out they're in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspoken

Sam all but collapsed onto the kitchen chair. The bunker wasn’t even remotely a safe house anymore (there was fuckall about God’s sister, let alone how to ward against her, and just their luck Lucifer now had a spell to break through angel proofing) but it was still the only place besides the Impala where Sam could fully relax into his exhaustion, so he did. He rubbed absently at his solar plexus, at the phantom ache from a supernatural asshole trying to fuck with his soul. Again.

When Lucifer had touched it, the pain had been overwhelming, like a burning cold shock filling the space between the subatomic particles that made up his body.

Amara’s attempt hours earlier had been more like trying to rip all his hair out at once, with his torso being made of trillions of tiny hypersensitive soul follicles.

_“The bond between your soul and Dean’s was too strong for me to take just him before, but if I take both of you at the same time…” A magnanimous smile and caress. “Don’t worry, Sam; it’ll hurt for a moment but then you’ll feel nothing but bliss.”_

The Darkness’ words echoed in Sam’s head along with how Dean’s face had morphed from helpless shame to fury. Big brother looking out for him like always—

Said big brother plonked an uncapped beer down in front of Sam before falling into his own chair across the table, another beer in hand. Dean raised his in a toast with an ironic and tired smile. Sam knew the feeling.

“Another day survived intact, Sammy.”

Sam scoffed but sipped. Dean chugged half of his. They stared at their drinks for a moment, companionable and commiserating in the white noise of the refrigerator humming. It really shouldn’t have been so familiar.

Dean tapped the rim of his bottle against his mouth like he was thinking. Then he aimed a teasing grin at Sam that made Sam hesitant to drink. “So, what’s this about a soul bond, huh? Something you wanna tell me, little brother?”

Oh, god, he was making it sound suggestive. “Don’t make it weird—“

“You think I’m gooorgeous, you want to daaate me,” sing-songed.

“Why are you making it weird,” moaned.

“Love me, mar—“ Dean broke down into silent laughter.

Sam cast him a dry look. “Isn’t that from a chick flick?”

“Dude.” Dean put on a straight face and held up a finger. “Sandra Bullock,” another finger “in skin-tight clothes,” another finger “and, like, an Octoberfest beer wench costume,” now just the middle finger “and kicking ass. What’s your excuse?”

“You always have the remote.”

Dean grinned. “Damn right I do. I’m the top in this relationship, after all.”

Sam groaned and ran a hand over his face. “Oh my god, please stop. And why are you acting like this is new information? We’ve known about the soul thing for years!” Sam straightened when something occurred to him. “Wait, what—what if this is God actually helping us out? These kinds of bonds come from high up in heaven, right? So, what if it was planned so we wouldn’t be as vulnerable to soul-snatching?”

“As in God knew all this shit would go down and that his sister would try to eat our souls, so he made it a little harder for her, but still left us to clean up his mess?” Dean paused, shrugged. “Sounds about right.” He shook his head and looked back at Sam. “How would that factor into the soul-eater thing, though? Or how one of us can die and the other’s just fine.”

Sam opened his mouth to call his brother out on his wording. In no context could soul bargaining, demon blood drinking, or suicidal grief be considered “just fine”. He settled for shooting Dean a brief glare instead. Dean just shrugged. “I dunno. Death was going to reap God someday before you…y’know.” Dean fidgeted. “And presumably other soulmates,” Dean’s eyebrows shot up at that, “don’t drop dead simultaneously, so death can definitely supersede God unless He puts some special effort in. As for the soul-eater... Well, I mean, we were counting on it taking you, right? So maybe that worked as, like, permission?” Sam scrunched his face in uncertainty and bracing for Dean’s smartass comment.

“So unless capital-D or Ultimate Deadbeat is involved, my soul can’t be yanked out unless yours gives it permission or is coming along for the ride too?” Sam spread his hands wide on either side of his beer in a shrug. “That’s taking being a jealous bitch to a whole new level, Sam. I’m kinda impressed.” Sam pursed his lips and leveled a glare at Dean, who leaned forward on his elbows with a mild confused expression. “And why isn’t this soul bond/mate thing news to you, again?”

Sam shifted his glare to a loaded, expectant look to see if Dean would make an actual effort to remember on his own. Didn’t work. Sam sighed—he was the one whose body and memory had been hijacked, like, half a dozen times and yet he was the one with the more reliable account of their lives. What on Earth was taking up so much space in Dean’s skull? Porn, probably. And alcohol. Actually, the alcohol probably explained a lot.

“Winchesterland, dude; remember?”

Dean glanced up at the ceiling and bit his lips for a moment before snapping his fingers and nodding at Sam. “Right, right, the place Billie-the-Asshole-Reaper wants to make sure we’ll never see again. Can’t say I’ll be too torn up about it—your half sucked ass.”

“Dean…”

“I mean, seriously, man, you being groped by a ten-year-old was creepy as hell. No thank you.”

Sam gave an awkward laugh. “Yeah, tell me about it…” He scanned Dean’s too-neutral expression. “A lot has happened since then, y’know. Pretty sure my half would have a whole lot more of the Impala in it now.”

Dean half-hid his smile by raising his bottle to drink. “Aww, you do care.”

Sam mimicked him. It felt nice to do the opposite of fuck things up more. They were on a role lately and hadn’t seriously fought since—well.

“But what does Winchesterland have to do with you being in love with me and being a jealous bitch with my soul?”

Sam huffed. “The only thing that Ash mentioned about leading to sharing a heaven is being soulmates. You were literally sitting right next to me when he said that.”

Dean stared at him blankly for a moment. “Why don’t I remember that?”

“Probably didn’t seem that important after Zachariah and Joshua,” Sam shrugged.

“Hmm. I dunno, finding out your brother is your soulmate is pretty fuckin’ weird, even for us.”

"Well, as people like to remind us, we are dangerously codependent, and we live out of each other’s pockets down here. So maybe not that surprising, all things considered. On Earth as in Heaven or whatever.”

Dean’s gaze on him turned indecipherably blank before he grinned. “Well, can’t say I blame you, Sammy.” He leaned back in his chair and patted his abdomen in what was probably supposed to be showing off but looked more like a two-year-old’s statement of hunger. “I’m, like, the embodiment of awesomeness and, as I have said before, a joy to be around.”

Sam huffed again in fond exasperation. “You’re an idiot is what you are.”

“Hey, you’re the one soulmated to this idiot.”

“Lucky me.”

“I’m glad you realize it—your bad luck had to break sometime, right?”

Dean drained the last of his drink. He rose and set the bottle in the sink after a rinse. Sam leaned back and looked up at Dean when he came to stand next to him. Dean’s face was weary but warm and those same spaces that Amara had tried to uproot in Sam resonated with contentment over his brother looking like that in the shitstorm that was their general life.

Dean pushed Sam’s beer closer to him. “Finish your drink and then get some rest. If you look like shit rather than like you just slept 12 hours the next time I see you, don’t think I won’t kick your ass, bitch.”

“Same to you, jerk.”

Dean flashed him a smile before tapping his knuckles on the table and heading towards the doorway to the hall. He made it halfway before he stopped short and cocked his head. Sam watched, wondering what Dean could have possibly forgotten, as he turned back and strode towards the table again with an odd expression. He braced himself on the table with locked elbows and leaned in too fast and hard for Sam to compensate well enough with leaning back.

“Dean, wha—“ Sam was cut off by his brother _kissing_ him. On the mouth. It was a moment of soft pressure then firmer for a split second and then gone with Dean making an exaggerated “mwah!” sound aided by the fact that Sam’s mouth had, in fact, been open.

Sam, stunned, looked up at his smug brother like Dean was bat-shit crazy.

Because he clearly was.

“Just a little something to keep you company—you know, in case you need help falling asleep.” And when did Sam get sucked into the Twilight Zone, because his not-possessed, mostly-sober brother just winked at him. Not the thanks-for-the-info wink, but the full-on come-hither wink generally reserved for women in bars. What the fuck.

No, _seriously_ , what the fuck.

Sam was barely coherent again when Dean was passing the door frame, cackling. “Sweet dreams, Sammy! Try not to be too loud!”

That was just—augh! “You’re such an asshole!” Sam yelled after him.

“You love me!” Dean called back, his voice echoing.

Not the point. “Soulmating goes both ways, dickwad!”

There was a faint laugh and then a door closing.

Sam rubbed at his mouth, at the phantom pressure, to keep from smiling. Enthused Big Brother Assholery™ was a very good sign. They had no idea how they were going to find or gank Amara or Lucifer, but _them_?  They were good.

 

* * *

 

Sam was the first to turn in the next night and Dean playfully whined like a toddler about not getting a good night kiss. So Sam shut him up. He feigned irritation going in but Dean’s delighted, amused grin when he pulled away made it impossible not to smile back. After that, chaste little good night kisses just became another unspoken thing.

Within the week it was joined by good morning kisses.

Then frantic thank-god-you’re-okay kisses.

Then whenever kisses. Making lunch, leaving for a supply run, handing over a beer, proposing a break after three hours of poring over research, edging towards despair—whenever.

It probably should have felt weird as hell. Definitely should have felt weird as hell. But most of the time the quick pecks were accompanied by hair ruffling, playful shoving and elbowing, or teasing; smiling. Kisses were more spontaneous than their rare hugs and more interactive and intimate than their usual pats, slaps, and claps. Combine that with how things hadn’t been this good between them in years and how uncertain everything was outside of the bunker and the kisses were, boiled down, a manifestation of _you and me_ and _I’m here, not going anywhere_.

Then, two and a half months after that first impulsive kiss, Dean half-sat on the table by Sam’s elbow, presumably to suggest a break of some sort, and leaned forward to bump his mouth to Sam’s. Sam felt a flicker of surprise when the bump extended into more of a press, and then Dean slid fingers into Sam’s hair and Sam didn’t even hesitate—imbued with safety and home and yes, anything, _everything_ —to open up with a sigh. They flowed seamlessly from a whenever kiss to soft presses of parted lips and damp breaths and eyelashes.

Sam reigned in his usual instinct to surge in and let Dean lead instead, keeping it slow and tender and vulnerable. Sam’s hands were honestly trembling when he moved them from the table to latch onto Dean’s shirts—he’d never felt flayed open by a kiss before, ever. He’d never _kissed_ kissed someone he’d loved literally his whole life and killed and died for, someone who had done the same for him, someone who fit every aspect of his life so fully. All those soul follicles were more than resonating now: they were flowering and thrumming and a bunch of other sappy crap he could never tell Dean without inevitably having to punch him in the dick for smart-ass comments. Then again, maybe soulmates meant Dean was feeling the same.

Dean pulled away slightly with one last lingering kiss and Sam opened his eyes just in time to catch the fleeting, close-eyed expression on his brother’s face that reflected everything Sam was feeling. Then forest green eyes were flicking between Sam’s, gauging: too weird? Sam was careful to keep his expression almost neutrally warm and tilted his head: did you miss the part where I went with it?

Dean gave a tiny nod and smirked: called it. And Sam raised his eyebrows: what?

Dean leaned forward back to Sam’s mouth and whispered, voice cracking with restrained laughter, “you think I’m goooorgeous, you want—“

Sam shoved him away, releasing Dean's laugh, and immediately pulled him back close, all the while wearing a fond smile that only scratched the surface of the sheer amount of affection he felt for his brother right then. “Soulmating goes both ways, jackass.”

Dean smiled indulgently. “That it does, Sammy; that it does."

Sam hummed, appeased, and tucked his smile against Dean’s. They’d be okay. All that mattered now, all that’d ever mattered, was that they were together.

**Author's Note:**

> My shortest fic ever and first in over 5 years, so I'm rusty! Comments make my day and concrit is welcomed! <3


End file.
